


Heron Blue

by ColdBookWorm



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthur dies but comes back, Canon compliant insofar as to serve only my self indulgence, Eventual Smut, Full Game Spoilers, Graphic Depictions of Illness, M/M, Medium Honor Arthur Morgan, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, bear with me, im writing this as i go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2020-05-12 11:04:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19227886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColdBookWorm/pseuds/ColdBookWorm
Summary: That’s all it really came down to, in the end, wasn’t it?A tombstone.He hoped someone would peel him off the mountain and bury him somewhere nice.//In which Arthur Morgan dies, but remembers he had things to do, people to talk to. Something to get off his chest.





	1. Edged in Crimson, Lined with Cedar

**Author's Note:**

> I've been writing this on and off for the better part of a few months, mostly because I really REALLY love canon as is, but like.... What if Arthur came back?? What if his character arc was as finished as it could /possibly/ be, but he comes back because he just,, never got to tell Charles how he really felt. I'm big sad but NOT FOR LONG YEEHAW

Dying... Dying felt deserved. The last little part of Arthur’s brain that managed coherent thought as he lay on that mountain, gasping for breath, thought that this end was fitting. Cruel, maybe. Ironic. But _fitting_ . The glory of battle, the smell of gunsmoke, the taste of adrenaline-- a quick, clean bullet through his head. _This..._ Wasn’t that. All the risks he’d taken in his life, all the violence and pain-- and the thing to get him in the end was a penniless farmer. A _cough_.

 

He turned to face the sunrise, on that unfamiliar mountain beneath an unfamiliar sky, and thought of Hosea. Eagle Flies. Lenny, Sean, Kieran Duffy, Miss Grimshaw. Molly O’Shea. All the people he didn’t get the chance to do right by. All the people he wanted more than anything to see again. He thought of John. Sadie, Abigail. _Charles._

 

He thought, distantly, that maybe this was okay. Maybe it hadn’t all been in vain. Maybe he’d made a difference. A difference that wasn’t bookended by tombstones.

 

That’s all it really came down to, in the end, wasn’t it?

 

A tombstone.

 

He hoped someone would peel him off the mountain and bury him somewhere nice.

 

He didn’t deserve it.

 

But he hoped nonetheless, as he wheezed his last breath.

 

\----

 

Everything felt weightless. Not disorienting, but... Warm. Comfortable. Effortless. It occurred to him suddenly that he should probably look around. _Could_ he look around? He found himself unsure if he... _Had_ eyes. If he did, there was nothing to see. Or perhaps he had his eyes closed but couldn’t open them. He wasn’t particularly worried about this though. For some reason, taking note of his surroundings seemed a low priority at the moment. Maybe he could just... Exist here for a while.

 

But something nagged at the back of his mind. What had happened before this? He felt like there was something he was doing. Something important?

 

Oh, right.

 

 _He was dying_.

 

But _this..._ This didn’t feel like _that._

 

His eyes opened slowly.

 

He didn’t think he was dying anymore.

 

He was... _Somewhere_. He blinked, trying to bring the world into focus. Squinted. A horizon made itself known to him. The sky was dark, an early morning sun casting its pale diffused light across the sky. He blinked again, and looked down, down at the red earth before him. The more he looked, the more detail came into focus. The landscape was speckled with boulders, grey-green shrubs, cacti. In the distance, the land rose up into spires and plateaus, massive shelves of layered stone fading into the distance. It looked like New Austin, though there were no landmarks that he recognized.

 

He looked down at himself. He seemed to have no clothes on, though this fact was more puzzling than concerning.

 

He was sitting on a cliff overlooking the landscape, and looking back, he saw the red dirt fade underneath a sea of golden grass. A few dusty oak trees broke the almost perfect flat of the space behind him. He frowned slightly - _still_ , none of it looked familiar.

 

“‘The hell am I?” he wondered aloud.

 

His eyes widened.

 

He let out a short cough, clearing his throat.

 

 _Nothing rattled in his lungs._ The taste of blood was gone from his mouth. He flexed his arms and marvelled at the fact that they didn’t ache. His shoulders felt good as new, his spine wasn’t stiff or sore. He felt... _Good._

 

_Better than good._

 

A giddy laugh bubbled up from his chest, and he all but launched himself to his feet, wobbling unsteadily at the cliff’s edge for a moment, before laughing, loud and _uninhibited_.

 

He was _okay_ here, wherever this was.

 

Heaven? Maybe. Couldn’t be any kind of hell, he felt too good. He looked around, unsure what exactly he should do. He looked down again, marvelling at the texture of the warm stone under his feet. A pebble dug into his heel, but he found himself not caring in the slightest. Looking back to the horizon stretching before him, he took a deep breath. _In. Out._ He couldn’t suppress the grin on his face. Breathing freely again felt like the most wonderful sensation in the world.

 

But... He thought he’d _died_ on that mountain _._ Standing out here, with the sun on his skin and lungs filled with the blessed air, he wasn’t sure how it was all possible.

 

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know, if he was being honest.

 

What was that saying about a gift horse in the mouth? Ah, it didn't matter. For now, he should probably _do_ something-- find clothes, maybe.

 

Quiet shuffling behind him interrupted his train of thought. He whipped around, and-

 

“Arthur?”

 

He stopped, eyes widening.

 

_Hosea._

 

 _Hosea was standing there._ He was wearing a blue button-down and faded jeans with a red patterned poncho. Heedless of his own nakedness, _Hosea was standing there in front of him_.

 

He wasn’t quite sure what to say. Hosea mirrored his speechlessness.

 

“Arthur, my boy..?”

 

Arthur’s jaw worked uselessly in reply.  

 

“Oh Arthur, why are you here?”  Hosea rushed to hug him as he stood there, stunned.

 

“Hosea?!” he pulled away from his grip to meet his gaze.

 

“Hello son,” Hosea replied softly. Tears glistened in his eyes.

 

A moment passed, and Arthur pulled him back into a hug, gripping him tightly and burying his face in his shoulder. His voice broke as he tried to hold back tears. “I missed you so much.”

 

Hosea hugged back, just as tightly. “I missed you too, my boy.” He pulled back and met Arthur’s eyes. Sorrow twisted his expression. “I'm... I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I left you all, and-”

 

“Don’t.” Arthur interrupted.

 

Hosea paused.

 

“Don’t you dare apologize for any of that. You... You didn’t know. None of us did. _Dutch_ , he...”

 

“I know, son. I know.” He glanced away. “We met Miss Grimshaw before you arrived. She told us everything. But I’m still... I’m still sorry. That I couldn’t be there for you and the rest.” He looked back to Arthur. “I truly am.”

 

Arthur looked away, suddenly wishing he could hide his face behind the brim of his hat. “Weren’t nothin’ you could do. ‘M just... I’m real happy to see you again, Hosea.”

 

Hosea smiled, a little wistfully. “Me too son.” He pulled Arthur by the shoulder into a warm embrace. Arthur, taken off guard, stood stiff for a moment before his mind caught up and he returned the hug.  _Squeezed_ Hosea as tightly as he dared, trying all his might to make him understand  _just how deeply sorry he was. Just how much he missed him._ Just how happy he was to see him again. A tear rolled down his cheek. Hosea sniffled, and when they parted, he was in no better state.

 

A moment passed. 

 

Arthur broke the silence with a guilty half-smile. “Any idea where I could get some clothes?”

 

That earned a chuckle from Hosea. “Sure, you can borrow my poncho for now. We have more clothes in the house.”

 

“House?” Arthur echoed, feeling the rough texture of the poncho between his fingers.

 

“Right over the rise there." Hosea motioned to a hill to the north. "A little homestead we've expanded upon, made it ours.” Something akin to pride intoned his voice.

 

“No camp?” Arthur asked, incredulous.

 

“Nah, we figured, what with all of us bein’ dead, we could settle somewhere more permanent. Money isn't really an issue anymore, thankfully.”

 

“How on earth didja figure that?” Arthur asked, incredulous.

 

Hosea chuckled. “When you’re dead, y’find out that not a whole lot matters anymore. Money, fame... None if it’s quite as good as family. Family 'n friends. But...” Hosea looked to the sky, brow furrowed. “I’m not sure what I’d do if Dutch showed up. Everything Susan told us... I’m not sure I’d like to spend whatever afterlife this is with him.”

 

Arthur was quiet for a long time as they made their way up the rise.

 

“He left me on that mountain, Hosea.”

 

He focused on Arthur for a long moment. The fence at the edge of their property, obscured partly by trees, came into view.

 

They came to a stop.

 

“You don’t have to tell me how it happened if you don’t want to, son.” He looked to the treetops.

“Whatever hell you had to fight through to come back to us, it’s over. You don’t have to go through it again.”

 

Arthur chewed on his words for a few moments. “You... You folks should know what happened. Y’said Miss Grimshaw was at this... Homestead?”

 

Hosea smiled sadly. “Yes, and Lenny, Jenny, Sean, Mac, Davey.” He rested a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s get you caught up. They’ll all be glad to see you.”

 

Arthur couldn’t suppress a smile.

 

\----

 

Charles’ stay with the Wapiti wasn’t as long as he would’ve preferred. A skilled gun and a good hunter would have been needed as the families made the harsh trek past Ambarino and into the Canadian wilderness, but no more than a week into the journey, he was sent away.

 

Rains Fall, for all the harsh realities weighing on his shoulders, took notice of Charles. The way he’d almost entirely stopped speaking outside of the essential, the way he’d stopped eating. Whatever excuse he’d provided, letting the women, children, the ill eat before him-- he wouldn’t hear of it. Charles couldn’t taste the food anyway, and the texture of near everything he tried to eat made him sick. _He missed Arthur._ The thought, the _knowledge_ that he was gone... It killed him with every mile he put between them. Every mile he forced himself to travel, because these people _needed_ him, regardless of the sorrow that weighed like lead in his chest.

 

They _needed_ him, so every morning he’d wake with the sun and push down the longing in his heart.

 

Rains Fall would hear nothing of his protests as he sent him away with a horse and a bag of meager provisions.

 

“ _Go back to him_. Give him your farewell, and ours,” was all it took for Charles to give in. He thanked Rains Fall with a nod and a lump in his throat.

 

So, he took off. South by southeast, as quickly as his horse could carry him.

 

It was a three day’s journey back to Beaver Hollow, but Charles made it in two. The remnants of camp were shot through with bullet holes, the week-old scent of death and decay festering in the air. Something in his heart twisted at the sight of Miss Grimshaw lying dead. He placed a sheet of canvas over her body, still curled in the middle of camp. A silent promise that he’d be back for her.

 

He still had to find Arthur.

 

Following the trail of rotting corpses wasn’t hard.

 

Following the broken underbrush and the bullet-riddled trees wasn’t _hard_.

 

Seeing Arthur’s beloved arabian lying dead and festering in the dirt... _Was_.

 

Was a confirmation of his worst fears. The weight on his heart made all the more _real_ . The _tightness_ in his throat _suffocating_.

 

Up the mountain, twin trails of blackened blood and scuff marks. An overhang.

 

And _Arthur_ , lying on the cold stone, eyes pecked away and skin sunken, _rotting._ He fought the urge to be sick, to _cry_ , _scream. It wasn’t fair._

 

Lowered himself onto the rock, tears threatening to fall. Shooed away an eagle that’d been eyeing him.

 

Gathered his resolve and picked him up, _gingerly_ , a fragile thing that was far too cold and weighed far too little. Charles barely registered the stench as he cradled his head in his arms.

Arthur. _His Arthur_.

 

He held him in a last embrace before securing him to his horse's saddle, taking the reins in hand and walking back to Beaver Hollow.

 

He found a wagon, presumably one of the Pinkertons', and lifted Miss Grimshaw's body off of the bloodstained soil. He wrapped them both properly and placed them side by side, before hitching his horse to the wagon, scavenging a shovel and a pickax, and starting off on a slow pace downstream.

 

On a hill overlooking the river, he took the shovel and buried Miss Grimshaw. He'd make a more permanent marker once he had the tools to do so, but for now a branch with her locket would suffice. He murmured a last thank you to the soil that concealed her and started on his way. Back up north, through the mountains. A rocky overhang next to an abandoned hut, covered with flowers.

 

They’d been hunting up this way, seemed like a lifetime ago. Arthur had suggested coming here in search of a good elk to bring back to camp, and Charles, as always, readily agreed. It was an excuse to get away for a good few days, take in the land around them. _Up_ and _up_ until the air was cool and flowing free, and it looked like the weight of the world was stripped from Arthur’s shoulders, if only for a time. Rarely did he ever have the chance to see Arthur so... At peace.

 

All that time ago, when his glances would linger, when he'd clam up for fear of saying something foolish. When he searched, desperately  _yearned_ for a hint, a sign that Arthur might feel the same. 

 

Before he'd been diagnosed. Before the bank heist and the mad dash for safety. Before it all went completely to shit. 

 

 _This_ was far away from  _that._

 

He figured Arthur would appreciate being buried here.

 

His throat was tight. The tears came at first unbidden, heavy and flowing in streams down his cheeks, along the line of his nostrils. He wiped them away and continued working.

 

The sun dragged its way across the sky, and with each swing of the pickax, each foot of stone and soil carved away, Charles made peace with the suffocating sadness. Made peace with the death of his friend.

 

His Arthur was gone.

 


	2. Gold Woven Into the Thread of the Clouds, Into the Tapestry of Earth

The curtains were drawn against the heat outside, casting the room to dim shadows. Three chairs around the table stood empty, but the other five seated Hosea, Lenny, Miss Grimshaw, and Arthur at the head. Arthur hadn’t touched his tea. 

 

Tension filled the space, unbroken, as he finished speaking.

 

“Wait, so you’re telling me that...  _ Dutch just left you there?! _ ” Lenny leaned in, horrified,  _ disbelieving _ . Arthur slouched, arms folded across his chest and expression pained.

 

He had only been in the house for an hour and he was still dazed. Jenny, Davey, Sean, and Mac had all rushed out to the porch to greet him with enthusiastic hugs, claps on the shoulder, tearful words. Greeting them all in kind proved... Difficult. He missed them, he truly did. The gang wasn't the same in their absence, but... He didn't feel  _ anything _ as he stood on the porch, wrapped in Hosea's poncho. It felt like he was wading through a dream. He felt distant,  _ numb _ . 

 

Some minutes later, he'd been clothed properly, given something to eat, and greeted again by Jenny and Miss Grimshaw. They’d asked to talk in the dining area. A pit of dread tightened in his stomach as it all came surging back.

 

Hosea and Lenny were waiting for them with four cups of tea (Sean joined some minutes later with a bottle of beer), and Arthur sat and began haltingly recounting the events of the last few days, trying to fill in the gaps of information that Susan hadn't been privy to. 

 

“Yeah, he left me there.” He looked over to where Hosea and Miss Grimshaw were seated next to Lenny. His voice was quiet. “Weren't really surprised though, in the end. Did Susan tell you folks about John?"

 

Miss Grimshaw spoke up. "Actually Arthur, I wasn't very clear on what exactly  _ happened _ . Why was Dutch telling us he was dead after that train job?"

 

Arthur sighed, looking tired. "It started before that. Back at Shady Belle, I started catching on to the fact that... Maybe Micah'd been putting ideas in his head. Insinuate'n that John was the rat, so... When the bank job went wrong, and John got arrested, he said Dutch just... Stood and watched. And  _ Dutch _ , he never sent anyone back to break John out, after we got back. He was gonna hang and Dutch knew it. Sadie an' me was the only ones who listened to Abigail. We got 'im back, and Dutch was  _ furious _ . And then on that train, when John got shot... We all assumed the worst when Dutch came back without him." He looked at his hands. "Dutch leavin'... It didn't surprise me anymore. In the end. He chose Micah, over his family. Over  _ us _ ."

 

The room was silent.

 

" _ Christ _ ," Hosea said softly, running a hand over his face. 

 

Miss Grimshaw let out a quiet sniffle to his right, dabbing away tears with a handkerchief. "Oh  _ Arthur _ ." 

 

"Don't 'oh Arthur' me," he said, frowning. "You all knew I weren't gonna make it out of there Susan. I was in a bad way for a long time." He didn't make eye contact. “Now it all just feels kinda like I’m dreamin’.”

 

_ Dreaming  _ seemed to him an understatement; he still remembered the feeling of  _ death  _ in his chest, and its sudden absence, his sudden appearance in this world-- soul shakingly  _ jarring  _ was probably a better way to put it. He was still  _ reeling.  _ It was a wonder to him that he hadn’t opened his eyes and been thrust back into the agony of the real world, back into the  _ shitshow  _ that he’d left.

 

His thoughts strayed briefly through the chaos to Charles. How they’d parted for the last time with a hug that felt  _ miserable _ . An embrace that was too filled with sorrow to feel the warmth beneath.

 

Something in his chest tightened _ ,  _ and he swallowed thickly. 

 

The hurt must’ve shown in his face, because Sean, who'd been uncharacteristically silent until now, leaned over and clapped him on the shoulder, giving him an equally uncharacteristic little smile. “It’s alright, Art’ur. You don't have to worry about none o’ that here.”

 

Arthur blinked and forced a response. “Thanks. I’ll... I’ll be fine, kid.”

 

His reassurance was hollow, and it was apparent to everyone in the room. He wasn’t fine. He didn’t think he would be, not for a long time at least. There was... There was too much that he’d left unfinished when he died. Too much uncertainty. 

 

Hosea exchanged a worried glance with Miss Grimshaw before speaking up. “Look... I know it’s a lot to take in so suddenly, Arthur, but there’s nothing you can do now. Death is just... Just a departure from your old life. You pick up somewhere far away from where you left off, and make things better. That’s... That’s what Davey and Jenny and I are doing.  _ Trying  _ to do, at least,” he amended. “It ain’t perfect, but this homestead-- it keeps us busy. Keeps us from dwelling too much on what’s past. Lets us pick up the pieces, make amends.  _ Move on, _ if we so wish.”

 

Arthur looked around, surprised. “Move on? You think I’d  _ leave _ ?”

 

“You always were the wandering sort, son,” Miss Grimshaw said, a wistful smile on her lips.

 

Arthur looked to the other faces in the room. Lenny and Sean didn’t look as if they were going to argue.

 

“Well, sure but,” Arthur said, an edge of denial edging into his voice, “But I would never  _ leave _ y’all. No matter how...”

 

“...No matter how much you wanted to?” Hosea finished quietly.

 

Arthur didn’t know how to respond. He stared hard at his hands, wishing for all the world to hide behind the brim of his old hat.

 

“You have all the time in the world, as far as I know. Your eternity doesn’t have to be spent taking care of all of us anymore. You don’t have to keep doing what you were forced to do all your life, Arthur.” Hosea concluded, sipping the last of his tea. A slight pause, and he moved to get out of his chair. “Now if you’ll, ah, excuse me, I have to see a man about some goats.”

 

Sean and Lenny rose as well, following Hosea out of the room with an apologetic look and a “Catch ya later Arthur,” respectively.

 

Arthur glanced at Miss Grimshaw, confused. “Goats?”

 

She smiled tiredly. “I think Hosea mentioned something about the neighbors giving us a half dozen or so. This is a proper ranch, what they’ve got here.” She looked to the doorway they’d left through and sighed. “Never thought I’d see the day Mister Matthews shovelin’ goat manure though. Makes ya think, doesn’t it?”

 

Arthur exhaled through his nose, a small laugh. “Sure.” He met her eyes briefly. “How’re you gettn’ on with all this, Miss Grimshaw?”

 

Susan sagged a little in her chair, staring into her tea. “I imagine about as well as you, Mister Morgan.”

 

“Ain’t that a shame,” he said with a hollow chuckle.

 

“Hmm.”

 

They sat in silence for a while longer, and Arthur brought the teacup to his lips, brow furrowed in thought. Set it back down again. “Do you...?” he started, and Miss Grimshaw looked up. "Where  _ are _ we?” 

 

Susan shook her head. “I haven’t the faintest, Mister Morgan. I’ve only been here a day and... Well, you know. Ain’t exactly  _ easy  _ adjusting, even with all my  _ worldly pains _ left behind.” She said, waving her hand, and a smile tugged at Arthur’s lips. That old Miss Grimshaw dry humor was still shining through, and that did more to comfort him than he ever would've expected. Gave him something to hold onto, something familiar. Something  _ light _ . He let the feeling sink in for a moment, to soothe the ache in his heart. 

 

“Did Hosea mean it when he said folk just...  _ Leave _ ?”

 

Susan gave him a tired look. “I don't think we're a gang no more, Arthur. Not from what I’ve seen." She took a moment to collect her thoughts. "Leave or stay... I don't think anyone would try 'n stop you. We're still  _ family _ but... Things are changed.”

 

_ Things were changed.  _ The thought nearly turned his stomach. Everything felt so... Languid _. Peaceful.  _ It felt  _ wasteful  _ that he was here while the rest of his family was probably still running for their lives. It felt wasteful that he was here without Charles. 

 

Arthur wished again for his hat as he tipped his head down, studying his hands, jaw tight.

 

Things were changed, and he wished more than anything that Charles was there with him.

  
  


 

\-----

  
  


 

There was no service for Arthur Morgan. Atop that hillside, drenched in sweat and covered in dust, Charles shoveled the last of the dirt and stones onto Arthur's grave. He patted it down, sat heavily and caught his breath. 

 

The waning sunlight, brilliant golden and pink, bathed the world in color. 

 

It felt thin.  _ Tenuous _ . As if Charles could reach out and touch it, but it would shatter on contact. He breathed in deep. 

 

His earlier grief had been dulled with exhaustion. The effort of holding himself up after nearly no sleep in two days, the trek up the Grizzlies, the effort of trying not to look back at every step to see Arthur’s stiff body in the cart behind his horse; it’d all worn him down near the point of collapse. He didn't know if he was grateful for it or not. More than anything, he just felt  _ numb _ .

 

That night, with the last of his energy, he poured out a drink and kept vigil over his best friend's grave. He reminisced on all the times they had together, in their brief camaraderie. All the times he wanted to make it something  _ more _ , and all the times he was too scared to ruin things between them. The numbness melted in waves with the lamplight, and in its stead there grew a deep sadness. Regret.  _ Shame _ . 

 

He cursed himself for his cowardice, cursed himself for the way things turned out in the end. Cursed the world and whatever it was that saw fit to let them suffer like this.

 

The night wore on. The sky grew light and turned the twilight to pale gold, and Charles lay on his side and watched the mountain come to life. Arthur's grave remained still.

 

Charles allowed himself to close his eyes, pillowing his head in the crook of his arm and the sunlight melting the chill from his skin. He nodded off to the sound of the wind in the pines, its steady howl over the mountain.

 

In his dreams, there was  _ blood _ . As the morning wore on, his fitful sleep was awash in viscera, the crunching of bones beneath his fists, the taste of adrenaline at the back of his throat, the shaking of muscles clenched too tightly, wound up like a coil. Anger. Fear, fear,  _ fear _ . The world was spinning, falling away--

 

_ Arthur _ . Arthur was falling away from him. In his dreams he grappled desperately to hold on, to just reach a little further.  _ Just a little further _ , but he kept slipping away.  _ Blood, blood and fists and the man beneath him, choking on his spirit, bleeding out his soul _ \-- it was Arthur beneath him, six feet underground and it was  _ his  _ fault he was there,  _ he’d killed Arthur, _ let him die alone up there just the same as if he’d shot him. 

 

He woke bolt upright, gasping,  _ sweating. Guilty. _

 

Covered his face with a hand, squeezed his eyes shut beneath his fingers. Breathed, heavy through his nose, until the shaking subsided, until his heartbeat returned to normal. 

 

_ “Fuck,”  _ he whispered as a tear wetted the gaps between his fingers. 

 

He hadn't slept long, maybe a few hours at most. The world around him was still the same. The sun still high in the sky, Arthur’s grave still as he left it.

 

He blinked away the tears and sniffed. He expected... Something to have changed. Distantly, he’d  _ hoped _ . But... The world didn't work like that. He was still numb. Still  _ guilty  _ and  _ lost _ . The grave in front of him was a cruel testament to that unchanging. A cruel testament to Charles' helplessness in the face of all he'd lost.

 

He should probably set up some kind of marker.

 

The only problem was, he wasn't sure how to go about making one that would  _ mean _ something. Miss Grimshaw's had been easy enough, a cross with her name and likeness. He hadn't known her well. Not like he knew Arthur. What could he  _ possibly _ put on the man's grave that would mean half as much as Arthur meant to him? 

 

He sighed, frustrated.

 

_ It had to be done _ . That was the thought that pushed him to tack and saddle his horse, to leave the shovel and pickaxe where he'd easily find them again, at the foot of Arthur's grave. That was the thought that pushed him down the path to Valentine, along the cliff edges and roaring river. That was the thought that pulled him, the knowledge that  _ it needed to be done _ , that he was the only one who could do it. He used the thought as a crutch, despite the pain it caused him. Despite the grief.

 

The undertaker was kind enough at least. Asked for a name to carve into the cedar cross, an epitaph for the wood that encircled it. 

 

_ Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness. _

 

A phrase that Reverend Swanson liked to repeat, in regards to Arthur more often than not. Especially towards the end. It seemed... Fitting.  _ Ironic _ , with their lifestyle. 

 

The undertaker gave him a practiced smile as he slid Charles the bill. Charles pressed his lips together and paid without a word, brushed some sawdust off the freshly carved marker. Tied it to the side of his saddle, and set off at a slow pace back up the mountains.

 

He camped for the night on the banks of the Dakota near Window Rock, as the sun grew old in the sky and the canyon cast the river in blue shadow. 

 

The rush of the water steadied him as he set his tent, laid out his bedroll. Soothed the tremble in his hands as he untacked his horse, brushed her down for the night and let her enjoy her bag of oats. 

 

He didn't bother with a campfire. He wasn't hungry, and he barely felt the chill of the river breeze through his clothes. Distantly, he thought that maybe he should be worried about that. 

 

For now the discomfort was ignorable.

 

He wasn’t tired in the slightest, but he closed his eyes and tried to sleep as best he could. He felt the hours pass as he shifted from one side to the next, staring at the distractingly bright stars, trying in vain to let the rush of the river lull him to sleep. 

 

There was no rest for Charles Smith.

 

Dawn rose, and he was reminded of his weariness as the sky grew light. A rock dug into his hip. The grass stuck to his arm, pillowed under his head. His clothes clinging to his skin, soaked and cold with the morning dew. He watched the shadows retreat from the canyon inch by inch, and mustered the strength to rise after another hour. 

 

He groaned and sat up stiffly. Drew his leg up underneath him and set about getting ready for the day’s journey.

 

As he coaxed his little american paint awake with a fresh feed bag, a frown returned to his face.  _ He _ probably needed breakfast too. He sighed and resigned himself to retrieving what little canned food he had in the saddlebags. It was going to be a long day. 

 

He ate quickly, a can of pre-cooked corned beef that he barely tasted. Went through the familiar motions of unstaking his tent from the ground, rolling up his bedroll, tacking up his horse. He took a moment to breathe and look around, to make sure he hadn't left anything important. 

 

He nodded, satisfied, and hoisted himself onto the saddle. There was a strange sense of finality that permeated the air there. A deep intrinsic knowledge that the river he looked to then was never going to be the same river twice. The roar of the rapids seemed to whisper their goodbye to him, the weariness in his body, the heaviness in his eyelids that he tried in vain to blink away.

 

He breathed slowly through his nose and watched the lodgepole pines and douglas firs pass slowly by, watched the sides of the canyon rise and diminish before him. His mind was tumultuous as he made his way up the mountain trail, carrying with him a stone pit of dread heavy in his stomach.

 

Found Arthur's grave again, hours later, the freshly turned earth easy to spot from the trail above. He untied the marker from the saddle on his steed and carried it to where Arthur was buried. He closed his eyes and _ shivered _ , the grief hitting him in a sudden rush. He clutched the grave marker tighter.

 

_ This was it. _

 

This would be his final, final goodbye to his best friend. 

 

He steeled himself. Set the headstone against a boulder and secured it with little stones. Stepped back, made sure it was sturdy. Blinked against tears.

 

The chill wind ruffled his hair.

 

"Goodbye my friend," he whispered. He brushed his fingers against the grain of the cedar. “I’ll miss you.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

Life at Matthew's Ranch was... Not what Arthur expected it to be. It was good.  _ Great _ , even.

 

The mornings started early, with Hosea up before dawn more often than not, cooking or simply enjoying his coffee on the porch. Lenny and Jenny were usually not far behind, getting started on the crops and letting the goats out to graze. Miss Grimshaw, in life, was usually up before even Hosea, but things were changed. She finally allowed herself to sleep in, even if her idea of  _ sleeping in _ was waking just after the sun rose.

 

There was always food in the pantry, or the cellar. There were cloves of wild garlic hanging to dry in the kitchen, bundles of thyme, large sacks of salt underneath the sink. On occasion there was even a small sack of granulated sugar in the cupboard, though it was gone just as quickly as it appeared (Arthur suspected Mac and Davey were eating it by the spoonful, but watching Jenny fly off the handle accusing every and anyone of the theft was just too entertaining to intervene on his part).

 

His work on the homestead was easy enough. Chores at first seemed endless, tedious and frustratingly repetitive, but he grew familiar with them. The labor helped him lose himself for a little while, relax into the mindless muscle memory of feeding the livestock, mucking out the small barn, watering crops. Cleaning around the main house with Jenny and Miss Grimshaw. Learning his way around a needle and thread, helping out with the laundry. He didn't mind the ribbing from Mac that it was women's work, not really. 

 

He... Didn't talk much those first few days. Those first couple weeks. After the discussion in the dining room, he felt he didn't have many words left besides those strictly utilitarian in nature. It was as if they'd been completely drained from him.

 

The afternoons passed slowly, unhurried with the heat of the sun baking everything below. Chores were mostly relegated to the mornings, when the ranch was abuzz with life, leaving the afternoon hours free for leisure away from the heat and the buzz of cicadas and crickets. Naturally, it was these times that had Arthur pacing and restless like a big cat in a cage.

 

Miss Grimshaw seemed to understand. She’d had a rough go of it the first week as well. But the second, the third-- it looked like something  _ clicked  _ for her that hadn’t for Arthur. He still felt mostly numb, passing the days in a haze. He was afraid of how he’d feel if he wasn’t.

 

No, he was... Fine. He didn't think about the life he'd left behind. He didn't think about Charles. He didn't think about the gang, wherever they might've scattered to. Tried not to. Not until the nights came and all he could think about was how much he  _ missed _ them. How much he longed to be back, laughing around a campfire with Charles and John and Javier. Hell, even  _ Uncle _ . The campfires in the field behind the homestead didn't feel as bright, no matter how much he willed them to be. No matter how much he wished they were. 

 

He was just fine, if anyone asked. The quiet sobs that he muffled at night in the shared bunk house with weren't something they talked about. The suffocating  _ remorse _ he felt in his chest when his mind had time to wander wasn't something he purposely made known. 

 

Kept his head down. Kept himself working, caring for their new goats, working with the spring foals, moving supplies, making jam from the season's early blackberries. He was just fine,  _ thank you very much _ .

 

Hosea saw right through him.  _ Of course he did _ . He should've anticipated it, all things considered, but Arthur was tired one afternoon as he drew water from the pump, hot and bone tired to avoid the talk he knew was coming. 

 

"Arthur."

 

"Hosea," he replied, guarded. 

 

"Walk with me?"

 

He regarded Hosea a moment, wiped the sweat from his brow. "Sure."

 

He dropped the bucket by the pump and they ambled their way to the south side of the property, with the fence newly erected and the wild grasses growing tall to lick at the rough oak posts. 

 

Curiosity tickled Arthur, but Hosea's familiar presence pulled it away like a moon to the receding tide. If he was going to tell him the reason for the walk, he'd do it in his own time. For now, he felt content to stare at the wispy clouds languidly sweeping across the horizon, the clear blue sky and the hot sun casting warmth on the golden grasses below.

 

He leaned on the fence post with Hosea and felt the wind cool the sweat on the back of his neck.

 

A moment passed.

 

Hosea regarded him carefully. "You’re workin’ too hard."

 

"I'm fine, Hosea."

 

"No, you're not.”

 

“Working... Keeps my mind off things,” he said after a moment.

 

“I know. Care to talk about it?" he asked.

 

Arthur opened his mouth, about to refuse, offer some excuse, but Hosea cut him off. 

 

"Yes, I am fully aware that you don’t want to. That was a stupid question.” he met Arthur’s eyes. “You’re bottling everything up again.” 

 

“I ain’t.” A token refusal. Hosea saw right through him.

 

“Don't you dare try to refute that. I practically raised you, I know how you have a propensity towards shutting everything up like that." His expression softened as he turned towards him. "I'd like to be able to help you, Arthur, if only you made it easier for me."

 

Arthur cast his eyes to the ground. "It ain't anythin' you need concern yourself with, I'm not... I'm fine."

 

Hosea sighed. "You're missing someone?"

 

 "I..." He stopped. Took a deep breath. After all those weeks, it was still novel to him how easy the air came. "...You're not gonna hate me if I tell you?"

 

"How could I?" Hosea said softly.

 

Arthur sighed. Figured he ought to tell him the whole truth. "I never... Shit, I never got to right all the damn wrongs I done. Back there. 'm not sure if John an' Abigail an' Jack got out safe. I made everything so much worse for the Wapiti. Dutch an Micah... They got away." He stopped and breathed a moment, and Hosea waited patiently for him to continue.

 

"I never... Never told Charles I loved 'im." His voice cracked on the last syllable. Emotion surged through him, choking,  _ unbearable _ . He scrunched his nose and blinked back tears.

 

Hosea patted his shoulder, rubbed his back gently. 

 

"I don't know what the hell I'm doin', Hosea. I missed you all so much I thought I would be  _ happy _ to die, but bein' here... I just miss everyone else even worse." He sniffed. "I'm just... Jus’..."

 

"Homesick?" He offered.

 

Arthur nodded, tears finally falling. "I know it's...  _ Selfish _ ," he said, looking away.

 

Hosea sighed. "Don't be so hard on yourself. It's perfectly understandable, considering how close you were to them in the end. Especially that Charles." Arthur looked up, searching. Hosea smiled. "I wasn't there toward the end, but I could see clear as anything you two were smitten with each other from the day you met." 

 

Arthur huffed a laugh. "Not one for subtlety am I?" He wiped his nose on his handkerchief. 

 

"'Fraid not Arthur," he gave his shoulder a sympathetic rub. "Now come to the house, I may have something that'll interest you."

 

With that they made their way back, and Arthur breathed deep to collect himself, dreading the thought of someone seeing him so... Vulnerable. He supposed, bitterly, that it didn't really matter one way or another; everyone at the ranch already acted like they were walking on eggshells around him, why not add another emotional weakness to the list of "Do Not Address"? Arthur heaved a self-depreciating sigh.  Why did it seem like he was the only one who wasn't taking the news of his death with grace? Hadn't he had  _ weeks _ to prepare? To set things  _ right _ ?

 

"Arthur?" Hosea asked, pulling him out of his spiraling thoughts.

 

"Hmm?"

 

"Would you mind helping me with the cellar door? The handle gets stuck, you just need to push it from the hinge-- yes, thank you," he said grunting with the effort. They pushed the door, and after a moment it clicked and groaned, swinging on rusty hinges and revealing rough-hewn wooden steps, covered with a thin layer of dust and descending into the darkened cellar. 

 

"What're we doin' here?" He asked, squinting in the darkness.

 

"Just grabbing something, I got it about a month back from our neighbors-- the uh, Bakers, I believe."

 

"They the ones we got the goats from?"

 

"Yes, lovely old couple. Their son Jeremiah is the one we met, few weeks back. I stayed with them for a while before Jenny, Mac and I built on this here plot of land."

 

Arthur hummed as he watched Hosea rummage through a dusty crate. "Anything I can do?"

 

"No, no, I'll find it, gotta be here some--  _ aha _ ," he exclaimed, holding up what looked to be a book in the darkness.

 

Hosea responded to his questioning gaze by holding it out to him. Arthur took it hesitantly. 

 

"It's a journal. Reminded me of you," he said.

 

Arthur opened it up and flipped through the first few blank pages, emotion swelling in his chest. "Hosea, I...  _ Thank you. _ " 

 

"No need. I figured you could use something to write in again. Just a shame I forgot till now," he said regretfully.

 

Arthur stepped forward and pulled him into a tight hug. “You already done too much for me. Thank you.” His voice was muffled. Hosea smiled and returned the hug just as tight. 

 

“Least I can do, Arthur.” he pulled away after a moment and held Arthur at arm’s length. “Now, there ain’t much else I had planned but to tell ya there’s something I need you to do for me.”

 

“Sure, anything you need,” Arthur replied with a heartfelt smile. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry bout the wait between chapters, I rewrote this a few times to aim it where I wanted it to go. Next chapter should be out sooner. maybe. ;3


	3. Finally Standing, Just Upside Down

The wet  _ Splat, _

 

_ Splat, _

 

_ Splat, _

 

sounded flatly in the big open barn, empty now while the cows and the big draft horses were all out roaming the pasture. Of  _ course _ Hosea had him mucking out the barn. Bastard.

 

_ Splat. _

 

_ Splat. _

 

A shadow fell across Arthur's boots, and he didn't have to turn to know who it was. 

 

"Tired of workin' yourself past death yet, Morgan?" Davey's rough voice broke the monotony. He smirked.

 

_ Splat. _

 

"'Course not. I'll grow tired of it when I get some better conversation." He stopped, leaned heavily on the pitchfork, and wiped the sweat from his brow.

 

"Ouch, Morgan," Davey teased, mirroring Arthur's grin. He righted himself from his casual lean in the doorway and made his way past Arthur into one of the empty barn stalls. "Need a hand though?" He held up a flathead shovel, gaze questioning. 

 

Arthur shrugged. "Sure, why not? Corner over there could use some scrapin', I just got the old hay off of it," he said, indicating the corner of the barn to his right. 

 

Davey nodded and set to work. "Hosea putcha up to it, did he?"

 

Arthur grunted. "Yup. 'N I thought it was something  _ important _ he wanted."

 

Davey chuckled. "Yeah, I did that to him when we first raised the barn, we been goin' back and forth on that chore for months now," he grinned. "Seen any mice yet?"

 

"No, and I intend to keep it that way. S' why I'm having you scrape the old shit underneath the hay," Arthur replied.

 

"Hmm. Smart."

 

Arthur resumed pitching cow patties into the wheelbarrow, ignoring all of Davey's attempts at conversation.

 

Fifteen minutes passed like that, the man practically begging to be paid attention to, until Arthur finally deemed the barn floor clean enough of cow shit to lay down his pitchfork. He fixed Davey with a stern stare. "Alright, f'r the love of god Davey. Tell me what you're so obviously  _ dyin' _ to tell me."

 

"Ain't no need, I'm already dead." Davey replied, barely managing to maintain a straight face while pretending to be engrossed in his work.

 

Arthur rolled his eyes, fighting a smile.

 

Davey snickered. "Honest, I ain't got anything to say. Just wanted to shoot the breeze a little, we barely talked since you got here."

 

"Whatchu mean? You're yappin' my ear off all the damn time."

 

"I mean, really  _ talk _ . Like we used to."

 

"If I recall, it was always something vulgar outta your mouth, Davey."

 

Davey waved him off. " _ Nonsense _ ," he said confidently. "You think I'm bad, half the shit outta Sean's mouth is either an innuendo or the word "fuck"."

 

Arthur shook his head. "True, but that don't make you any better."

 

Davey ignored him and changed the subject. "Hey, you remember that time, back near Deer Creek that uhh... Saloon, I think it was?"

 

Arthur shook his head. "I'll bite. Yeah?"

 

"And I was comin' back from the bar, and me an' you and Hosea was piss drunk and didn't notice some fool stole Hosea's saddle till he tried to get his boot in a stirrup that weren't there? Fell on his ass n' you thought is was the funniest damn thing you ever saw?"

 

"That time Mac threatened to kill the whole town, I remember. What of it?"

 

Davey shook his head, good natured smile on his face. "I dunno. Just... They were good times, weren't they?" 

 

That particular day Arthur remembered well enough; they'd had to stumble their way to Mac before he could do anything to get himself killed in an outpost of heavily armed trappers, get on their horses sans one (1) saddle, and ride down the ravine where they were camped. Hosea, hilariously sloppy drunk that he was that day, fell off his horse twice before Arthur could offer him a ride, laughing all the way despite the danger.

 

Arthur chuckled. "Didn't we have to come back the next day n' stop you from drinkin' the whole saloon outta business?" 

 

"Hey now," Davey laughed, "I do  _ not _ remember that part."

 

"Shit, I'm surprised you remember  _ anything _ before that. Dug you outta a pile of whiskey bottles three feet high," Arthur laughed.

 

"Oh man. Good times," Davey said, wiping moisture from one eye. 

 

"Yeah, I know. I missed you an' Mac. Gang weren't the same without the pair a' you." Arthur took a breath, smile lingering on his face. "What brings all this up?" He asked.

 

"Oh I dunno. I just... Find myself reminiscing a lot, I guess. Those days... They always had a brightness to 'em, y'know? Like... We was doing something  _ revolutionary." _

 

Arthur eyed him slowly. "I think I know whatchu mean."

 

"Yeah?" He shifted on his feet a little, waiting.

 

"Yeah." Arthur looked out the barn doors into the pasture, staring at nothing in particular. He took a moment to breathe. "...Why the sudden change? None of us go lookin' for scores anymore, none of us are doing anything from the old life. What changed? Besides dyin', I mean," He asked quietly.

 

Davey shrugged. "Lots changed. We don't need money or any of that shit no more, an' Mac an' me only ever did it cause we had to, but now... I dunno. Kinda miss it, y'know what I mean? The old life?"

 

"Yeah," Arthur said quietly. He thought about the old bank jobs. The coach robberies, train jobs. He thought about the shift they made, back before Blackwater, when they'd taken in Strauss and entered the business of loansharking. 

 

_ "Just temporarily son, just to keep us afloat for now. It's all perfectly legal, low-risk, high reward." _ Dutch had told him.

 

Somehow, putting a bullet between someone's eyes seemed a kinder way to kill them. 

 

_ The old life. _ Arthur frowned. He wasn't sure if he missed the old life. Hell, he missed a lot of things, a lot of people-- but robbing folks, killing them-- he didn't think he missed that part. 

 

"Y'ever think about 'em?" He asked, his voice low. 

 

"Who?" Davey asked. 

 

"All them folks' lives we ruined. Men we killed what probably had families, people we stole from who didn't deserve it."

 

Davey fixed him with a look, leaned on a stall gate. "Try not to. We only stole from folk what deserved it, sort of."

 

Arthur sighed. "Sure as shit weren't what we were doin' in the end."

 

"How d'you mean?"

 

"D'you... Remember that weasel, Herr Strauss?"

 

"Yeah, sort of. Dutch had him takin' on loansharking, didn't he?"

 

"Mhm. More often than not it was  _ me _ collecting. What a shitty thing to do to a desperate person, loaning like that. Them jobs made me feel like... Like robbin' folks to their faces seemed more civilized." He met Davey's eyes. "None of them people deserved what we did to 'em. They were all desperate, almost the brink of death or disaster, and I was sent there to push 'em over the edge." He looked down, studying his boots.

 

The image of the deserter soldier and his Lakota wife flashed through his mind again, vivid and painful. The flames from the wagon of supplies  _ he'd _ burned. The mother in the shack with her son, destitute, near starving and nowhere to go, because of  _ him _ . The widow Mrs. Downes and her brave, foolish son, in that horrible little town selling their dignity and their lives  _ because of him. _

 

The old life.

 

He continued, quieter, "I don't know what happened to Strauss, after I gave 'im the boot. Probably sent him to his death but... Yeah, I know whatchu mean, but I don't miss the old life. Saw too clearly what it was doing to people."

 

Davey was quiet for a moment as he studied Arthur, a sad look in his eye. "Guess I had the good sense to die in the snow."

 

Arthur exhaled through his nose, the corner of his lip twitching in a sad smile. "Guess so." He made eye contact with the man. "But... Thanks for your help, Davey. You can go if you want."

 

"Well... Alright then," Davey straightened, propped the shovel against the rough grain of the stall, and gave Arthur a comforting pat on the shoulder. "Don't work so hard, Morgan." 

 

Arthur watched him leave through the barn doors, chewing on his thoughts.

 

\--

 

_ Hosea gave me this journal, just the same as the last, which I guess is now in the possession of John Marston. I gave it to him right before I died, and I hope he does not think any more ill of me upon reading it.  _ (The word "ill" is boldly underlined.)

 

_ I am still having a little trouble comprehending the fact that I am dead. I walk and talk in this world, and it must be a world for me to walk and talk in it. I breathe, and grow hungry, and grow hot, though there is always food and shade and good company, and I am mercifully no longer short of breath. I sit around the table and eat and laugh with all them that fell as if they were never gone. I missed them so much that it is difficult to pen down.  _

 

_ Somehow though... I am still unhappy. There is so much I left untended to when I died, and there are so many people I miss.  _

 

_ This is paradise, but it is a paradise without Charles, or John, or Mrs. Adler. I find myself unsure if I find paradise really suited to my tastes.  _

 

(On the opposite page, a vague 3/4 portrait of Hosea, staring into the middle distance, features relaxed into a smile. The caption below reads, _ "I suppose Hosea finally got his wish of settling down somewhere out west. Shame it couldn't have happened earlier." _ )

 

\---

 

Arthur shut his journal as he finished the entry and stowed his pencil in the binding, staring out the window absently. A few moments passed like that, quietly, contemplatively, and he simply breathed. Frowned down at the pencil lead on his hands after a moment and rubbed them uselessly on his pants. 

 

"Mister Morgan, you got a minute?" Miss Grimshaw poked her head in the doorway.

 

Ah. There goes the fleeting moment of peace. "Sure, Miss Grimshaw," Arthur replied. He stood. "Whatchu' need?" 

 

She waved her hand noncommittally. "Nothin' too bad, I promise."

 

"If you say so," Arthur shrugged. He followed her down the steps from the back porch, following the fence-lined path toward the east exit. They made their way up the hill past the edge of the property, toward the grove of trees that gave an island of shade in the sea of waving yellow grass. Walking along, Miss Grimshaw shook the hem of her skirts to dislodge some hitchhiker seeds, to little effect. Arthur chuckled. "Startn' to consider wearin' pants yet?"

 

Miss Grimshaw made an affronted noise. "You been keepin' around bad company, mister Morgan. It ain't proper for a lady to wear pants," she huffed.

 

"I dunno," Arthur said, "it seemed to work out for a fair bit o' women back in the day." He was only half teasing, but it got enough of a rise out of Susan for a good laugh. She promptly picked up a few paces ahead of him, stopping only when she'd crested the hill and reached the trees. To his surprise, it seemed that she'd taken the liberty of bringing out a picnic blanket and a woven basket. He blinked as she made a motion for him to sit. 

 

"What's all this?" he asked.

 

"A picnic, obviously," she smiled and busied herself with the basket, producing two bottles of beer and a small handkerchief. "Just wanted to have a heart to heart, away from that god forsaken manchild McGuire," she smirked.

 

Arthur chuckled at that. "Alright, fair enough. You too, now?"

 

"What, McGuire?" She used the handkerchief to take the lids off with a quiet  _ pop _ .

 

"Naw, the heart-to-hearts. Seems like damn near everyone's been givin' me one."

 

She popped the second lid. "Can't imagine why," she said wryly.

 

He shook his head and took the proffered beer. He took a long pull, savoring the smooth taste.  _ God _ , even the beer here was fantastic. It wasn’t a brand he recognized, the label only bearing a picture of a honeybee and a bushel of barley. "First Hosea, then  _ Davey  _ of all people. Suppose Lenny's next, huh?"

 

Miss Grimshaw smiled, nodded. "Hey now, y’never know." She looked down, contemplating. Her eyes remained fixed on the label of the beer bottle, not really seeing it. "Look, mister Morgan. I been... Hosea and I were talkin', and... We know somethin's wrong. He wouldn't give me details but it's clear as day even without. You don't seem to be doin' so well."

 

Arthur sighed heavily. "I'm  _ fine _ , Susan."

 

"That's what you been  _ tellin' _ everyone. I know you ain't, and Hosea knows you ain't. We thought, maybe with that  _ journal _ ... But..." She stopped, unsure. Arthur waited for her to continue, took another sip of his beer. "It's just... There's  _ time _ now, and there ain't no gang, no rivalries, no goddamn  _ Colm O'Driscoll. _ What I'm-- what I'm tryin' to say is, you don't have to act all big and tough if you're hurtn' inside no more." She looked into his eyes, searching for something. Arthur lowered the bottle, thumbed at the ridges on the mouth. 

 

"Susan... You know it ain't like me to...  _ Talk _ about..." Talk about his pain. Talk about anything like this, not to her at least, not as readily.

 

She sighed heavily. "I thought as much. Lemme-- tell you what," she said, and put her hand on his forearm, "Go with Jenny and Lenny to town tomorrow. Ask around, see if there's anyone you can talk to about all this." 

 

Arthur fixed her with a sarcastic look.

 

"Oh, come on. You know, discreet-like," she said.

 

"You want me to go into town and find a  _ shrink _ ?  _ Me? _ "

 

She straightened up. "Yes, given that you won't talk to me  _ or _ Hosea."

 

"I talked to Hosea!"

 

"You just said you  _ missed _ folk, Arthur! That obviously ain't all there is to it!"

 

Arthur threw his hands up in defeat, ignoring the beer that spilled down his hand. "Fine,  _ fine _ . I'll go into town.  _ Load a' good it'll do me _ ," he fumed. Miss Grimshaw grinned smugly as she took a sip of her drink.

 

A few moments passed between them, miss Grimshaw looking smug and Arthur simmering in his mood. They both took a drink, and another, until Arthur noticed her expression. He scowled. "Gloat on your victory all you want woman, but I ain't helpin' out with the laundry next time." 

 

Miss Grimshaw feigned despair. "What  _ ever _ shall I do?" 

 

Arthur chuckled low in response. "How did y'all even  _ survive _ without me doin' half the stitching anyway?"

 

"Oh, don't go getting all big-headed about it," she waved him off. "Although, I'm almost certain you do more work than that lousy Mary-Beth ever did."

 

"Hey now, don't go raggin' on Mary-Beth, it ain't like she's here to defend herself. 'Sides, she wanted to be a  _ writer _ , not an outlaw-seamstress." 

 

Susan snorted a laugh at that, nearly spilling her beer down the front of her shirt. "Oh my goodness, that's what it were, weren't it?" She laughed again, loud and barely contained. Arthur joined in, chuckling and relaxing a bit, leaning back on his arm. 

 

He sighed as Susan took another swig, smiling, and tried to get his thoughts in order. “Y’know... Thank you. For the concern. Maybe I just... Ain’t used to it.”

 

“You got a sensitive soul, mister Morgan,” she said softly.

 

He frowned but didn't dispute. Took another drink.

 

“You thought about leavin’ yet?” she asked.

 

“A little. Maybe for a day or two,” he replied.

 

“Well, let’s just start with goin’ to town, huh?”

 

Arthur smiled. “Sure.”

 

Their picnic was undisturbed as they sat quietly and worked through the dumplings Susan had brought along, making light conversation and enjoying the dappled shade in the trees. It felt like Arthur could relax a little for the first time in months.

  
  


\---

  
  


The nearest town, as it turned out, was about twelve miles northeast, across the rolling plains and sat squarely on the river, with the lush green countryside enveloping it like a cradle.

 

Arthur, Jenny, and Lenny passed a few small farms on their wagon, their fields small but near bursting with crops. A few farm hands waved as they passed by. Lenny and Jenny waved back happily, Arthur a little awkwardly.

 

Conversation was slow as Jenny steered the horse drawn wagon at a steady trot down the road, past a fork, through a few beech trees, and the land rose and fell away between the trees to reveal something more like a city than a town. Reminded Arthur of Blackwater, if the city weren’t so cramped and dried out. 

 

They made their way down the road and Arthur relaxed, taking in the view from the back of the wagon.

 

“Hey, y’know Kieran Duffy lives here?” Lenny leaned back in his seat to speak to Arthur, seated comfortably on a cushion between a few crates.

 

“The O’Driscoll boy?”

 

“Yeah. Last I saw he was in one of those tall buildings downtown,” he said.

 

Arthur whistled low. “Damn, livin’ the good life, is he?” 

 

“I dunno,  _ life _ might be the wrong word here,” Lenny grinned. “But he trains horses I think. There’s a stable a little ways north, he works with his parents.”

 

“Huh.” Arthur said, thinking. The wagon jolted along down the path. Arthur’s thoughts wandered. Maybe he could pay Kieran a visit. 

 

A few minutes passed in silence as they took in the sights, the draft horses hooves clopping on the cobblestone.

 

“Say, kid.”

 

Lenny glanced back. “Yeah?”

 

“You ever meet your parents here?” 

 

“Naw, my old man... I’m not sure where he got to. Never met my birth mother, and my stepmom, well... We didn't part on the best terms.”

 

Arthur hummed and dropped the subject, mulling it over as they passed a big victorian-style house, painted green and brown with a veranda that looked full to bursting with potted flowers. Arthur wasn’t sure how he’d react to seeing either of his birth parents again. They’d be about his age, wouldn’t they? Would they recognize him? Would he... Even  _ want  _ to meet them again? The thought  _ disturbed  _ him somehow, deep in his core, and he shook his head to try and clear his thoughts. That wasn’t something he really wanted to deal with, just yet. Wasn't something he was  _ prepared _ to deal with, leastaways.

 

The wagon turned a corner, and Jenny pulled the horses to a stop right before a big open market, and Arthur brought himself back to the real world. 

 

The place was  _ huge,  _ filling at least six city blocks. Every square inch that wasn’t walking space was was a tent, or a booth, or a blanket laid out with bits and bobs, a variety that made Arthur’s mind  _ boggle.  _ Holy  _ shit. _

 

“Uhh... What’re we here for again..?” Arthur asked, distractedly scanning the trader's setups.

 

Jenny laughed. “Stuff for furniture, mostly. Fabric, wood, oh-- a few new tools too. We got a list,” she said, waving it in the air.

 

He nodded before turning back to the wagon. "So, how do we, uhh... Pay for anything?"

 

"It's all trades, remember? Lenny and me brought some stuff to barter with." They began to walk, weaving their way through people milling about. "We've got a few goats to trade back at the ranch; a nice couple a' cattle, and too many berry preserves to count. Ain't much, but livestock is good bargaining power in these parts. 'Specially for big stuff like lumber."

 

"Mhmm," Arthur said, distracted. Jenny took him by the elbow with a wry smile and lead him a few steps away, leaning in a little to be heard over the din of the people around them. 

 

"Listen, Arthur. We've probably got this covered, if you want to go and explore a little. Maybe say hi to that Duffy fella at the stables."

 

Arthur rolled his eyes. "If you don't want me around you can just say so."

 

"No, it's just-- I know you got business in town, is all," she said.

 

Arthur looked affronted. "Goddman, how many people did Grimshaw  _ tell _ about all this?!"

 

Jenny just sighed. "Arthur, I really don't give a shit what your business  _ is _ , just  _ do it _ so you'll stop mopin' around all over the ranch." She shifted on her feet, challenging Arthur to argue. He broke her gaze first and looked down, arms crossed. 

 

"...Fine. I'll meet ya back here in a bit."

 

She nodded once, firmly. "Stables are a straight shot north, jus' follow the road."

 

"Thank you," he said flatly. 

 

At least the weather was cooler here than at the ranch, the breeze off the water alleviating the sun on his shoulders as he plodded along the cobblestone road, heading north. That Kieran Duffy better be worth it, goddammit.

 

He didn't really even know what he was going to  _ say _ to the boy.

 

He pondered that as he passed a big honey-yellow house, with a low, loose-woven wicker fence bordered by a multitude of brightly colored flowers. On the left was a bush thick with pink camellias, a tall bush of heady lilac, larkspurs, African daisies, poppies, and bordered near the gate by light pink peonies, all growing lush and bountiful. He slowed to admire them for a moment, let himself relax slightly in the smell of lilacs. Damn shame he didn't have his journal with him, but next time he came to town he made a mental note to sketch out the beautiful yard. He looked around a moment, heedful of the yard's owners, and reached out to pick a small bunch of the purple lilacs. He slid it discreetly into the pocket of his poncho and continued on his way. A woman walked down the opposite side of the road, side-eyeing him with amusement. Arthur didn’t notice.

 

He passed a few other stately-looking houses, but few with gardens as lush as the honey-colored house's. He idly wondered who lived in those houses, so well-cared for and lively, with their laundry swaying fresh in the breeze and the smoke rising from the chimneys.

 

Must be nice, just living in a house, tending to a flower garden, the world sweet as sugar around you. It made him happy, in a melancholy sort of way, when he thought of how lovely everything in this world was. How strange it all felt as he made his way through it, feeling like an outsider. Must be lovely, he thought, but not for someone like him.

 

He wondered if time passed any differently here, compared to the waking world. If time slowed to a molasses crawl like the people seemed to act like it did. Nobody was in a hurry around town, hell, nobody was in a hurry  _ anywhere _ . Wasn't like they had the fear of death around the corner to persuade them to a fast paced lifestyle. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not, that languidness. The strange carefree demeanor that people went around with. They could probably tell Arthur was new to their world, as tense and wide-eyed and hurried as he was by comparison.

 

The houses along the road grew less frequent as he walked the gentle incline of a hill, admiring the little wildflowers that dotted the side of the road, peeking through the grass. The cobblestones gradually faded to a wide dirt road, with two wagon wheel divots and a strip of short yellowing vegetation between them.

 

The unpainted wood fence of the stables came into view past the rise in the landscape, and he followed it through a grove of massive white oaks, walking at a leisurely pace. The pasture was well shaded under the sprawling trees, grass growing thick and yellow around the edges of the fence. The interior of the pasture was grassy, trampled down by countless hooves and eaten away wherever it grew long. Showy multicolored flowers grew in planter boxes hanging off of every other fence section, and if he craned his neck slightly, he could see training structures at the far side of the pasture-- high jumps, with their brightly colored bars stood loosely on pegs, a line of striped poles for maneuverability training, a large platform whose purpose eluded him. He found himself wondering whoever it was that got to take care of horses in such a picturesque place, and how on earth Kieran Duffy’d wound up there. 

 

Finally, the stables came into view past a turn in the road, no longer obscured by the oaks. Painted a subtle red with bright white trim, the place was sprawling and far more expensive looking than he expected.  _ Kieran Duffy _ worked here?  _ Their  _ Kieran Duffy?

 

He continued on the road after a moment, owlishly taking in the view of the place, until he reached a gate with a sign hanging above from a wooden beam; it read simply,  _ Livery, Stables, & Training.  _ Arthur placed his hand on the gate and hesitantly made his way inside. He spotted an old man a little ways past the building, hitching up a Clydesdale to a cart. He called out to him, shifting his posture to look a little less conspicuous. “Hey there, mister,” and waved.

 

The old man looked back for a moment, and continued tightening the horse’s breast collar. “What can I do for ya?” he asked over his shoulder.

 

“Does uhh, Kieran Duffy work here?”

 

“Yes'sr. Should be up in the training pen thataways,” he said, and motioned to his left, past the barn. 

 

“Uh, thank you,” Arthur said, giving him a half-salute. He walked in the general direction and rounded a corner, boots crunching on the pale gravel, and found himself next to one of three large square pens. The closer held two horses, both boredly grazing at the edge of the fence, and the center pen was empty. A smoky-colored gelding pranced about in the last pen, and to Arthur's amusement and bewilderment,  _ there was Kieran _ , looking alive and well, chasing after the horse with a blanket and a bit. Arthur got close enough to hear what was being said and held back an incredulous laugh. 

 

"Come on boy, just work with me here! You need this as much as I do, don't-- don't make me chase you 'round," Kieran wheezed. "You'll regret it!" The threat was empty as he hunched over and caught his breath, the gelding prancing back and forth across the pen in obvious triumph.

 

"Well  _ shit,  _ if it ain’t the O’Driscoll boy!" Arthur laughed as leaned his weight on the fence.

 

Kieran furrowed his brow and he stood up sharply. They made eye contact. 

 

"That can't be... Mister  _ Morgan.. _ ?" He asked, incredulous.

 

"Howdy," Arthur replied. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been editing and re-editing this bit for three months now and I figured I'd quit lollygaggin and finally *post* something rather than run around like a dog with a rattler stuck on its tail, worrying about *finishing* something. So here's a short chapter, while we get re-acquainted with Kieran, who absolutely deserved better :')


	4. Under the Gentle Sun

Kieran looked him up and down, eyes wide as saucers, and remembered to close his mouth. "What're you...?" he trailed off.

 

"What am I doin' here?" Arthur supplied, smiling, his head cocked.

 

"Yeah, yeah... You... You  _ died _ ?"

 

Arthur's smile wavered a little. "Yeah, I died. TB," he said, pressing an idle hand to his chest, feeling the fabric of his shirt, half remembering the ache in his bones.

 

"My god," Kieran breathed. The horse, who'd ceased prancing a minute ago, meandered over as if to see why his trainer wasn't paying him any attention. 

 

"Who's this?" Arthur asked, motioning to the gelding. Kieran turned, surprised. 

 

"Oh, uhh, this is Atsá. He's a little bastard of a Nakota colt but I love 'im," he said, coming back to himself slightly. His eyes widened after a second, realizing the horse could hear him. "N-not that he's poor behaved or nothin', it's just-- he's--" he turned to the horse apologetically. "I didn't mean that, boy, I'm sorry."

 

Arthur laughed aloud, the gelding startling and prancing away again.

 

"Not much of a horse trainer, are you?" 

 

"I'm plenty fine with trainin', it's just... The way I like to go about it is a little slow, is all." He scratched the back of his neck. "Today was supposed to be our first session with the bit, but he just... Hasn't taken to it I guess."

 

"Well shit, you need a hand?" Arthur said, watching the gelding pace back and forth behind Kieran.

 

He gave Arthur a pleading look. "I-if it's not too much to impose?" 

 

Arthur jumped the fence and landed heavily on his feet, patted Kieran on the shoulder, and grinned. “Kid, ‘f there’s one thing I missed from bein’ alive, it’s trainin’ my bastard horses. This’ll be a piece a’ cake.”

 

Kieran’s smile was hesitant, but he looked happier than Arthur could remember seeing him in a long long time. He let loose an enthusiastic laugh and a subdued “thank you,” handed Arthur the bit and halter, and gathered up the long tail of rope that trailed from the horse’s neck, both of them now attempting to calm him with renewed, quiet, vigor. 

 

Hours passed, just Arthur, Kieran, and the gelding Atsá. By the fourth hour, the horse was panting heavily and gnashing his teeth around the bit, white lather at the corners of his mouth, the blanket finally negotiated onto his back and Kieran holding his legs tight to the horse’s sides. He’d stopped rolling after an hour, and stopped bucking altogether around the second. Arthur had borne the worst of Atsá’s bucking, landing flat on his back a few times and once on his side, always quick to roll away before he could catch the business end of a hoof where his torso had been just a second before. 

 

“Now, now, easy boy,” Kieran murmured comfortingly for what felt like the hundredth time. Arthur held onto the rope around Atsá’s neck a few feet away, covered head to toe in dust and bits of grass, spotting Kieran in case the gelding decided to pull another stunt. The rope was slack; he had reasonable confidence that the horse was done being an ass for the moment, that Kieran had a good enough hold over him. The way Atsá’s ears were no longer flat against his skull was a good sign, but the wild whites of his eyes still flashed every time Kieran shifted on his back, and he still protested at the reins guiding his steps in a slow circle. 

 

“So, whaddya think? Good for now?” Arthur asked after a few minutes of quiet.

 

Kieran cleared his throat. “I’d say. He did real good today,” he said, patting the horse’s neck affectionately. “You wanna help me take him back to the barn?”

 

“Sure. Lemme help you down,” Arthur replied, taking the rope in his left hand and holding up his right for Kieran to grab. 

 

“Thanks,” Kieran grunted. He landed and stretched his back with a wince. “Mm. C’mon, I’ll show you where it is.”

 

Kieran bunched up the reins and shifted them over Atsá’s head to guide him. Arthur draped the rope around his neck over the blanket on his back and dusted off his hands. Kieran gave him a sidelong glance. 

 

“Y’got a little dirt on your face there.”

 

Arthur scoffed. “You ain’t one to talk,” he gestured to Kieran’s back, coated as it was with light dust from being thrown.

 

“Ah shit, I forgot,” he laughed. “Looks like we could all use a good bath.” 

 

Arthur unlatched the gate and Kieran guided the horse carefully through. 

 

“I’ll say,” Arthur said. They made their way along the wide path towards a big red barn, where Arthur could hear a few horses nickering and grunting within. A few moments passed in silence, Atsá between them plodding along and still halfheartedly chewing on his bit. Arthur patted him on the neck. “So... How’d you end up in such a fine place?”

 

Kieran hummed. “Not really sure if I’m bein’ honest. Well I-- The O’Driscolls found me right outside a’ camp-- back then-- and well...” he was quiet a moment. “Well they didn’t need any information from me. I wouldn’t a’ told ‘em if they did, but... They got me pretty bad. Woke up dead, right after my eyes went.”

 

Arthur’s stomach twisted.

 

“I came to on the bank of the river right outside a’ town, and my mammy ‘n pappy were there, fishin’. Didn’t know it was them, at first, I was real shook up, but somehow they recognized me. It’s... It’s real nice havin’ ‘em back, livin’ in a town, workin’ here. Folk treatcha alright. My uh, my parents been workin’ here with the boss, Felina Cortez, for a while. They got me in pretty easy once she saw I was good with horses.”

 

Atsá snorted.

 

“Well, maybe not  _ this  _ horse.”

 

Arthur huffed an absent laugh. “Yeah, I dealt with a few stubborn horses in my day. You did good.”

 

Kieran smiled, tried not to preen at the praise. “Thanks mister. Well, uh, that’s it right up there. You mind unlatchin’ the door?”

 

“Sure,” Arthur said. He jogged ahead and unlatched it, pulled aside the mechanism and rolled the door open wide on its tracks.

 

Kieran lead Atsá into one of the stables and quietly removed his blanket and unbuckled the halter and bit from his mouth. The horse nodded and worked his tongue around uncomfortably for a moment before surging forward to the water trough in front of him. Kieran looked at him fondly before closing the gate, turning back to Arthur, who was leaned on one of the whitewashed stable doors, unsure of what to do with himself. 

 

“Y’know, I gotta thank you mister Morgan.”

 

Arthur looked surprised. “What for?”

 

“Well-- for a lotta things, I guess. Helpin’ out with Atsá today, mostly. For takin’ me in back then, lettn’ me stay. You were real nice to me compared to-- well, everyone I guess. I still remember that fishin’ trip when we saw that buck naked swimmer,” Kieran said with a smile.

 

Arthur chuckled with him, looking down at his boots, Kieran shifting on his feet. The moment passed into silence, and Kieran continued. “You were there for me when it mattered, I guess.”

 

Arthur didn’t know what to say; that was barely even  _ true _ . He said as much.

 

“No, it is,” he said firmly. “An’ I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable or anythin’, it’s just... I- I want you to know that you’re a good man, Arthur Morgan. ‘S a shame they’re down there withoutcha now.”

 

His stomach twisted again, a pang of sadness and  _ regret _ . He lifted his gaze to Kieran’s. “Well... I’m real sorry it had to end for you the way it did,” he said quietly.

 

Kieran made his way back to the barn entrance, bright afternoon light filtering high through the doors, and Arthur at his elbow. “I don’t like to think it was the end,” Kieran replied. “Maybe it was more of a beginning. Tha- that’s what my ma says at least.”

 

Arthur thought for a moment. “That’s real wise.”

 

“Yeah,” Kieran agreed. They walked slowly down the path toward the big gate, surrounded by yellow-orange poppies. The main bunkhouse to the east was painted red to match the rest of the property, constructed from planks and accented with white trim. The whole estate gave the impression of wealth, even if, outwardly, it didn’t display much embellishment. Maybe Arthur just wasn’t used to visiting a place that didn’t reek of apathy and neglect.

 

“I know it ain’t really my place to invite ya over, but we have a big ol’ ranch down the ways a bit, southwest o’ here. Matthew’s Ranch. You’re welcome to come visit whenever you’d like. I’m sure Hosea and Lenny would like to see you again.”

 

“They got a ranch now?” Kieran asked, surprised.

 

“Yup. Them an’ Jenny, Mac, Davey-- Grimshaw’s there too.”

 

Kieran made a face. “No offence intended sir, but I’m pretty sure she thought I was one a’ the girls.”

 

Arthur laughed, loud and hearty. “Oh, I know the feelin’. Still though, you should come on by sometime, it’d be nice. I’m sure them old timers would love to meet you.”

 

“I think I might,” Kieran said with an apprehensive smile. "But only if you come back again tomorrow n' help me out with Atsa."

 

"Y'drive a hard bargain, Duffy," Arthur said, immediately followed with an, "Although I happily accept."

 

Kieran grinned, wide and happy. "Great! I'll meetcha again tomorrow afternoon?"

  
"See ya 'round," Arthur gave him a two fingered salute and strolled out the front gate, tired and covered with dust. 

 

That had been...  _ Nice _ , just to get away from the ranch for a while. Sure, he probably stank like hell and looked even worse, but working with horses was a welcome change. He was looking forward to tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heres the second half of that last chapter that I finally finished editing. Atsá is the name I gave my blue roan Nakota in game and I love him with all my heart ;w; anyway hope y'all enjoy the small update! I'm still chuggin' along :)

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are, as always, very appreciated! :D


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